Life is Good
by Got Tea
Summary: Sunny Saturday mornings – no one to answer to, and nothing pressing to do. Just them. Just him and her and whatever they want, however they want.


**For all those who still enjoy this tiny fandom, and especially for those who leave reviews and comments - your kindness is truly appreciated.**

 **This is a heavily edited version of the full story, which is only available on Archive due to FFNs no MA fic rule. Please be aware the full version is adult rated. Happy reading. :) xx**

* * *

 **Life is Good**

 **…**

The light pouring in through the open back door is warm and bright – cheerful early morning sun that is warm and summery, and full of promise for a long, happy day. The old wooden floorboards beneath her bare feet are pleasantly cool as she pads quietly up the stairs from the basement kitchen to the front door to retrieve the small pile of post there, all the while listening to the gentle sounds of the man standing happily at the work surface, humming away to himself as he prepares an indulgent weekend breakfast for the two of them.

Lying atop the pile by the door is a cheerful photograph of a luscious valley, green with plentiful vegetation and gleaming in the cloudless rays of a sun-filled sky blue day. As postcards go, thinks Grace, studying the scene, this one is rather beautiful. Somewhere in one of the former states of Yugoslavia, she surmises, noting that there's no explanation on the front as to where the picture was taken.

"There's a postcard," she tells him, wandering back into the kitchen and taking the time to pause and admire the view as he moves between the stove and the sink. There's plenty to see, for he is clad in only a pair of plain black trunks, and far too easily she finds herself getting lost in the hypnotic movement of muscle in his long limbs.

"Who from?"

"I don't know – I didn't read it."

"Why not?"

It's so like him. "Because it's your post, not mine. I simply admired the picture."

"Let me have a look, then." He puts down his whisk, looks up at her. Takes in her sleep tousled hair and his dark grey shirt that's her only cover, most of the buttons of which she didn't bother to fasten when she slipped from bed to follow him downstairs. "God, woman, you look irresistible."

Grace smiles, warm and soft, and drunk on love. Stepping closer she puts the post aside, slips into his arms. Melts into the embrace that binds her to him.

"The things you do to me, Grace…" he whispers into her ear, voice low and husky, "I've half a mind to carry you straight back upstairs to bed." She grins, knows exactly how he feels. This thing between them… it's blindingly powerful.

"Only half a mind?" she teases, though it's very light-hearted and she kisses him then, slowly and sweetly, and with promises for later. They have a three day weekend ahead of them, and a pact to leave work far, far away for the duration. Tomorrow there will be lunch with his family, but that is all. The rest of the time is theirs, and theirs alone.

Quality time with each other; to eat and drink and laze around – to indulge in life's pleasures.

Sex is one of those pleasures, definitely, but first they need food for time is ticking on and there have been too many accidently missed meals of late, as they have grappled with an increasingly complex investigation, and the temporary loss of both Kat and Eve to annual leave.

Boyd relaxes his arms, lets them fall away until his hands are resting on her hips. Grace shivers at the contact of his thumbs stroking her skin, even with the fabric between them, and then gasps as he flexes, employs a little of his strength and lifts her easily up onto the counter beside the stove.

Sheer mischief twinkling in his eyes, he reaches out and unfastens a single button on her borrowed shirt. "Much better," he declares, admiring his handiwork.

She raises an eyebrow at him, notes that it was an upper button that he chose to release. Knows _exactly_ what it is he's admiring. Tone arch, she asks, "Really?"

"Oh yes," he answers, thoroughly unabashed.

Grace laughs, amused by his silliness, by how beautifully relaxed and happy he is away from the stress of their working lives. He's washed and chopped the strawberries she bought yesterday, and she watches as he reaches out and snags a couple, as he offers one up, thumb brushing against her lips as he gently feeds it to her.

"Good?"

"Very," she replies, licking her lips in the sweet aftermath, and she knows that _he_ knows she's not just talking about the taste of the berry.

She holds out a hand, wanting another treat, and when he obliges she leans back just a little, just enough to make the seam of the borrowed shirt shift in a way that inevitably – and entirely predictably – catches and holds his attention once more. The cool, textured mass of the strawberry drops into her waiting palm, and as she moves to place it in her mouth Boyd lets his thumbnail drag across the length of her palm.

Grace shivers again, just as her lover surely knew she would, and then their eyes are ensnared in a gaze that instantly says everything about what is going to happen next. Watching her eat her prize, Boyd slowly, deliberately runs his palms up her calves, fingers splaying to tease the sensitive skin behind her knees before wandering further up, pushing the material of the shirt aside.

Breakfast, it seems, may have to wait.

…

It is the sound of children shouting in the street that eventually stirs them both. Boyd mumbles something unintelligible and lifts his head slightly, moves just enough to press a light and long lingering kiss to her temple.

Grace merely hums and burrows deeper into his arms, her head tucked into the cradle of his arms and chest.

"Your hair is tickling my nostrils," he informs her, breaking through the spell she's still so comfortably wrapped up in.

"Don't care," she mumbles, only just managing to muster the energy to form the words. "Comfy."

"So am I," is the quick response, "but unless you want me sneezing on your head…"

"Charming, Boyd," she scolds, but makes no move to even so much as twitch a limb. The old sofa beneath them is big and soft, and his embrace is both secure and highly coveted. She really is very comfortable. Very comfortable, very sated, and very, very cosy. And she has no intention of letting this moment end before she absolutely has to.

"Grace…"

"Mm?"

"You're very… "

"Annoying?" she supplies, helpfully.

She feels him shake his head. "Gorgeous."

That gets her attention, makes her break her self-imposed ban on movement. Stretching, she looks up at him, eyebrows lifting sceptically. "Peter…"

He presses a finger to her lips before she can say another word. "Hear me out," he insists, fingers trailing along the length of her bare arm before drawing lazy patterns on her shoulder.

"Messy hair, flushed skin… it does a lot for me," he admits. "A lot!" She smiles sweetly at him, about to chalk his words up to dopamine and oxytocin, but Boyd keeps talking. "How you look right at this moment – it's very… unguarded… and that… means so much more to me than I can describe. I hope you know what I mean – it doesn't sound right when I say it out loud, but… this side of you, that no one else sees… that you share it with me – it means everything. And I love it."

He's talkative when he's thoroughly sated, that she observed from their first encounter together. Not in a sense that lends him to throw away words with abandon, but in a quieter, more sharing way. He'll tell her things about himself, what he thinks, what he feels, hopes for. What he thinks about her.

It's really rather wonderful.

In the aftermath of Linda and cancer and surgery and treatment, she needed it. When they somehow fell into each other's lives in a far more intimate, permanent manner, she needed it. Even now, as time is passing, she's getting stronger, and the horrific, terrifying memories are beginning to fade and lose some of their sharper edges, she still sometimes needs it.

The first time he cooked her dinner, and then sat talking and drinking good wine with her in the comfort of his big sofa after taking her to the appointment where they both listened to the final, long-awaited all-clear, she felt the world begin to shift on its axis. The first time he took her upstairs to the impossibly deep comfort of his bed and made love to her, she knew. And when, lying entangled as they are now, thoroughly sated and deliriously happy, he started, for the first time, to confess the tangled mess of his thoughts and feelings and the true depth of his fear for her, she rolled over, kissed him with breath-taking tenderness, and told him that she was deeply, irrevocably in love with him.

Life hasn't been the same since, for either of them.

This connection, this bond between them, whatever it may be, is incredibly deep. Powerful. Has been forged over years, and has battled through the adversity of time, circumstance, fear, anger and horrors of the near unimaginable. It goes far beyond the boundaries of tradition and normality and societal expectation, but that doesn't matter, because it suits them, and it fits them.

"Thank you," she whispers. She kisses him again, a slow, sweet acknowledgement and an expression of her gratitude all wrapped up together, and then settles against him once more, her head resting quite naturally on his chest where she can feel the slow rise and fall beneath her cheek as he breathes, hear the steady beat of his heart.

It's a perfect moment.

The sun has moved, is streaming directly in from the garden now and it's wonderfully warm where it caresses her. As is Boyd's skin beneath and around her, and before she knows it, Grace is dozing again and so is he.

How long it lasts, she has no idea, but the hazy half-world she finds herself drifting in is a very pleasant place to be, filled with dreams and fantasies that border on her reality, and for long minutes she lingers there, enjoying every moment of it.

The strong arms that are holding her so securely are part of it, she's sure. A reminder that, even as far along the journey of life as she is, it's still possible to find love and acceptance. To be swept up in the kind of caring, reassuring, stability that she's fought against, but still craved for much of her adult life.

…

The batter is mixed for their long overdue crepes, the fruit is chopped, and the tea is brewing, so Grace returns to studying the picture on the postcard as Boyd pours milk into their favourite weekend mugs.

"Who sent it?" he asks, and Grace automatically holds the card out to him, unwilling to read his private post.

Boyd looks up, lifts an eyebrow. "For heaven's sake, Grace! We share a bed, and a whole lot more – I think you can read the back of a postcard."

"I would never presume," she replies, but she turns the small piece of card over anyway and is met by familiar, untidy scrawl. "Eve," she says, automatically, before her eyes even scan to the name printed at the bottom of the mess of letters and words.

"War graves," he tuts. "What a way to spend your annual leave."

"You can't fault her dedication," murmurs Grace.

"Or her curiosity," retorts Boyd.

"True," remarks Grace, "but her charity is highly commendable."

"Without a doubt," he agrees. "I'm just not sure spending her holiday with death is a good thing for her when her working life revolves around so many corpses and cadavers."

"You worry about her." It's a statement, not a question.

Hazel eyes flicker her way as he lifts the teapot and pours. "Of course I bloody do. She's one of us, and after Stefan…"

"That's very –"

"Don't say it," he interrupts.

She grins wickedly, "What, you mean kin–" He cuts her off with a swipe across her backside from the tea towel. Grace yelps and dances out of the way as he takes aim a second time. Looking around for ammunition, she finds nothing and scowls at him as he sniggers. "You're such a child," she sniffs, though there is nothing real about the irritation injected into her tone and he knows it.

He merely grins at her. "Whatever you say, Grace, whatever you say." Nodding at the postcard still in her grip, he asks, "What has she got to say then?"

Shaking her head at his antics, Grace looks down and squints, realising her glasses are upstairs beside the bed.

"'Dear Grace and Boyd. There are plenty of bodies to keep me busy, but I'm sure you'll be pleased to know I've been enjoying the scenery as well – lots of hiking and running through woodland and sleepy villages. The weather has been kind so far, though a big storm is forecast later in the week so I'll be spending my last few days in Sarajevo with an old friend. Hope you are both well, Eve.'"

Finishing, she stares at the message, heart in her throat. Boyd spots her expression, sees that she's somewhere between horror, panic and confusion. "What's the matter?" he asks, putting the milk back in the fridge and turning to give her his full attention.

For a moment she can say nothing, has to focus on reining in her rising panic that their secret, which they have guarded so well and kept so carefully, is well and truly uncovered.

"Talk to me…"

This… _them_ … it's no one's business but their own. Has been hidden away from the rest of the world since day one because of who they are and what they do. Boyd has far more to lose than she does, if their relationship were to ever go public, and Grace has always accepted that. Has fiercely guarded their private life together as just that, entirely and wholly _private_ , by mutual agreement. They both know the dangers it poses to him, to his career. Hers too, though not as drastic. They accepted that risk right from the very beginning.

But this…

Suddenly finding out that all the covert shuffling between work and one another's homes, all the effort to appear at work at different times each morning, to leave nothing and no trace behind them… They've worked so hard at it, and she's felt so safe, so secure for months, but now she feels as though the firm, level ground beneath her feet has suddenly been yanked out from under her.

"What's the matter?"

She needs to answer him, can hear the edge of impatience beginning to build.

"' _Dear Grace and Boyd,'"_ she quotes. _"'Hope you are both well.'"_

"And?" he asks, clearly oblivious.

"Peter, she _knows_ about us. She sent a postcard addressed to _both_ of us. To _your_ house."

"And?" he repeats.

"This… us… it's not a secret anymore."

To her astonishment, Boyd simply shrugs. "Eve's known for a while, I'm sure of it."

He's so calm, that's what's startling. So calm, and apparently unbothered by the whole thing. It helps steady her, just a little.

"Peter…" She's lost for words, truly. Scared and angry and upset by the dozens of thoughts that are bombarding her, questions as to what they've done wrong, what they've missed, who else might know, or may have guessed.

"It's okay," he tells her, firmly. Honestly. "No one else knows. It's fine."

She breathes, tries to focus. Concentrates. Eventually steadies herself a little.

"You're not at all worried?" she finally asks, curious.

"Nope," is the carefree reply as he hands her a mug. He really doesn't seem to be, either.

She is. "Why not?"

Boyd pauses what he's doing and turns to look at her, leaning his hip against the counter as he does so and crossing his arms over his bare chest. "It's _Eve_ , Grace. Eve! She's not going to tell a soul. She's your friend, and she adores you. She's happy for you – for both of us."

Grace stares at him, thoughtfulness really beginning to replace panic now. "How are you so sure about all this?"

"She told me so, when you were ill."

"We weren't together then."

She's confused, certainly, and as she watches him, Boyd rubs his chin, the whiskers of his beard rasping against his fingers. "I was terrified for you," he finally admits. It's not exactly an answer, but it seems important to him as he speaks, slowly and reflectively. "And so was she. We… talked. Helped each other, I suppose you could say."

This is news, but somehow it doesn't surprise her. Eve and Boyd have a lot more in common than they probably realise, she thinks. In a situation like that it wouldn't take much for them to gravitate towards each other. Still, she doesn't know what to say. "That's…"

Boyd shakes his head at her, offers a half smile, and she knows. He doesn't need her to say anything – he understands. "One day," he continues, and she leans back against the worktop to hear his story. "One day she came to my office. It was late – you'd just gone home. It was while you were still on heavily restricted hours – right at the end of your treatment – and I'd had to chase you away from your desk."

She smirks at a handful of such memories that his words call forth. Can't help herself, and he stares, gaze impenetrable with the weight of his thoughts.

"I was so afraid for you," he tells her, repeating his sentiment. "So worried you would wear yourself out, that you would do yourself more harm than good because you were so eager to do something, anything, that got you out of the house and away from the cancer."

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, biting her lip as amusement vanishes and guilt flares at the thought of having caused him even more stress.

Boyd shakes his head again, continues, "Eve saw it, and then she came to talk to me. Told me I was an idiot."

"An idiot," Grace echoes, unsure where he's going.

He nods. "Yes. She said I was putting off the inevitable, and while I kept doing it, I was just punishing both of us unnecessarily."

"I don't understand." She doesn't, not really. Isn't clear about what he means.

"I said the same, and she rolled her eyes and muttered something about men all being as dense as each other."

Grace can picture it, easily. Right down to the exasperated look on Eve's face. Her friend can be incredibly blunt, when she wants to be. Wondering where the story goes, she sips her tea and asks, "What happened next?"

"She told me it was the saddest thing in the world to watch two people pining for each other and refusing to deal with their feelings. And then she pointed out that we had just watched you walk through hell and that somehow you were managing to crawl out the other side – how many more chances did I think I was going to get? How much longer were you going to last under the strain of it all without someone to lean on, someone to ask for help now and then?"

"What happened then?"

"She went back to her lab, and left me alone with my thoughts. The next evening I took you out to dinner."

Grace remembers it. Can picture now the gentle, easy company he was as they shared a meal in her favourite little Italian restaurant. In the weeks that followed they shared more meals – in restaurants and little cafes, enjoying the hours of escapism from the stress of reality. At weekends he visited her, helped with chores that tired her out, worked through the crossword with her, took her shopping and for walks in the park, insisting that fresh air was good for her.

"That was seven weeks to the day before we went to my last appointment together," she recalls.

"I remember," he nods. "I planned that evening's meal for ages – it felt like eternity waiting for it to happen."

She studies him, reflects on how lucky she is, wonders something. "What would you have done if I hadn't been given good news?"

"I don't know," Boyd replies, and the depth of honesty in his tone touches her deeply. "I thought about it a lot before that appointment, and afterwards, but I still don't know now." He reaches for her, holds his hands out to her, and when Grace takes them she finds herself being carefully pulled into a quiet, very loving embrace. He winds an arm around her waist, the other across her back so he can bury his fingers in her hair, and holds her close against his chest, cheek resting against the top of her head.

"I can't imagine not having this," she tells him quietly. "I don't think I could have survived without you in those last few weeks. I was so worn out by then, and all the things you did to help me, to cheer me up – it meant the world."

"We don't need to go back over it," he murmurs, and she knows he's not brushing her off, only that he still struggles with it all as much as she does, and that sometimes rehashing everything is not the answer, that it does not help them move forward.

Grace kisses his arm, where it curves across in front of her face, still holding her securely. "So we have Eve to thank for this, us, then," she muses, deliberately changing the track of the conversation.

"We do," he replies easily. "I've never confirmed it to her, but she knows. She hasn't stopped giving me smug smirks when no one else is looking."

Grace laughs, and it's free and easy and wonderful. It really is okay, just as he told her – just as he promised her all those months ago when she desperately needed someone to hold her hand and tell her that it would be.

Boyd pulls back, gazes down at her with a smile on his face that reaches into every part of his body.

"What?" she queries.

He shakes his head lightly, leans down to bestow a tender brush of his lips across hers. "Your laughter," he explains. "There was a time when I thought I'd never see you smile again, never hear you laugh…" he trails off, leaves the sentence as it is.

Grace understands.

They've learned, both of them, when to leave some topics alone. When to let go and move on. "Are we having these crepes or not? It's gone lunchtime now and I'm starving," she teases, and gets a flashing, boyish grin in return.

"We most certainly are. Outside," he questions, "or in here?"

Grace makes a show of looking at his trunks and her barely buttoned shirt. "What would the neighbours think?" she gasps, feigning shock. "They'd be scandalised!"

Boyd just laughs. "In here it is, then."

Grace shakes her head, amused, as she gathers various items from around the kitchen and starts to lay the small square table. On a whim, and due to the high levels of dopamine currently swimming around inside her brain, she's sure, she lays the two places next to each other instead of across the table from one another as is their norm.

It's certainly an indulgence, their meal, but it is good, and it is exactly the kind of peaceful pleasure they both need and want.

"I love it when summer berries come into season," she sighs happily, enjoying the mixture they have.

"Same," he mumbles around a mouthful.

She smiles at him, and then looks at the table, eyes searching. "Where's the cream?" she asks, more to herself than him.

"Forgot it," he nods, pointing across the room. "I'll get it." Before she can rise, he's on his feet and striding across to the counter, gait long and smooth. He returns, one hand landing softly on her shoulder as he passes, squeezing lightly as he leans down to briefly nuzzle her temple, sharing a quick, one-armed hug with her as he does. It's a tiny moment, but one that makes her heart light up. Little things, tiny domestic happenings – they are everything to her.

Sharing her life with him, the good parts and the bad is… wonderful. Everything she ever allowed herself to daydream about, and more.

"Happy?" she asks, as he tucks back into his meal with a zest she recognises so well. He looks up, studies her with an intensity she's slowly grown accustomed to. He knows she's not just asking about their meal, about right now.

Leaning back in his chair, he surveys her, tilts his head and props it on his hand. "I wouldn't change anything. I love you, I'm happy, and it's a three day weekend. Life is… good."

Though her heart appreciates his honesty, adores his response, she offers him a mischievous grin and asks, "Nothing?"

He plays the game, gives his reply consideration and thought. Says, "Well, if we were going for truly perfect, I could do without that bitch Maureen Smith lurking about at the yard and waiting to try and hang me out to dry by the balls, but…"

She bats back, offers, "Well, we could all do without her, but we're not talking about work until Tuesday, remember?"

Her lover nods, and Grace knows he's aware of her implication. Her offer for him to share anything that might be bothering him. To tell her if he has remaining fears or concerns about her. About them.

To voice any change of heart about what they are doing, where they are going.

Boyd smiles at her, gentle and kind as he reaches out to delicately tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "Life is good," he repeats.

And it is.


End file.
